Under My Skin
by systematic honey
Summary: Heine and Naoto aren't that great with words. oneshot; no plot to speak of. Heine/Naoto.


more fic? this is madness.

anyway. wrote this in September of '08; thought i might as well upload it, since. idk. don't judge me, it's 6am.

**WARNING**: this is really random, ffff. two words: _sexual tension_. ah. haha? no real sex because i would probably fail at writing it. this entire scene just wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is. enjoy~ (or not, whatever)

* * *

How it begins, to her, is kind of surreal to start out with. An exchange of words, a couple of foul stares, and they're walking away from each other. She glares daggers into his back as he leaves, and hopes he dies in a fucking fire. It _is_ fire that kills zombies, right?

She figures it's best to stay somewhere quiet, so she sits in a secluded corridor in the back of the church, waiting for the priest to get back from another errand. The back door is old and dilapidated, and a cold winter chill is escaping from the multiple cracks in it. She pulls her jacket closer to her, and tightens her scarf around her neck.

There's dead silence. For a long time, she notes. But it's Tuesday, and no one visits church on Tuesdays. Lots of time passes as she waits. She's gotten pretty good at waiting over the years. With no chair, she leans up against the wall and closes her eyes.

Then, the back door bursts open with a huge gust of frigid wind.

And there's those red eyes again, surprised at seeing her there, apparently. A scoff and snarl, a flash of sharp teeth. Some comment about her being a creepy-stalker-bitch, and she snaps. She thinks fast.

He trips on her outstretched boot, and lands flat on his face on the cold stone floor. It takes all the muscle strength in her face for her to resist sneering at him when he looks up.

She knows the consequences are coming. He's angry now. Fuming, boiling with rage. She can see it in those dark red eyes.

He stumbles to his feet again and stands at full height before her. He only needs to take two steps toward her to get close enough, and his teeth are bared in one of his insane grins. He rests his palms on the walls on either side of her, his shoulders rigid. She's passive, arms folded across her chest and looking at him square in the eyes. Her expression says nothing. She's mastered the art of the poker face.

There are no words exchanged. Not a single one. It's a staring death-match, and neither of them is going to lose.

Nothing moves for a long time. The church bells ring 2 o'clock. The cold air from outside ruffles their hair and flutters her skirt around her bare legs. Unwillingly, she shivers.

Like a rabid dog on edge, the sudden movement makes him react. In an instant his mouth is on hers, unexpectedly and, for all she knows, completely without reason.

And it's something funny. It's longing and hungry. It's frustrated and raw, awkward and angry. But there's something else there, she detects. He's searching for something. It's deep and full of questions, questions that can't be put into words and coherent thoughts. They manifest themselves in his biting and inexperienced movements, asking her over and over again without really looking for something substantial.

The roughness of it all makes it more real than she has ever imagined a kiss to be. But has she ever really imagined it? She can't recall, but it doesn't really matter anymore. Her eyes close and she tries to meet him with the same fervor. She's not sure if she can give him what he's searching for, but for now she'll see what she can do.

One of his arms slides off the wall and he buries his hand in her short hair, deepening the kiss. His other hand grips her waist tightly, and she realizes that her back is now fully against the wall. Her hands find his chest; He's cold. Cold all over. There's at least a 10 degree temperature difference between her hands and his pale skin. The only heat she can feel from him is in his breath.

Her arms move up and around his neck. The tips of her fingers reach his bandages, and one of them brushes against that cold steel plate. It's like she sends an electric jolt through him, and he pulls her even closer.

An almost inaudible moan slips out from her, a tiny hum of pleasure against his lips. They break apart, their shallow breathing the only sounds echoing in the hallway. Her scarf is already on the floor for some reason, and a couple of buttons on her jacket are undone. She can feel the cold air coming through the opening, rushing across her chest. His fingers trace the faint edges of her scar, just above her heart. They make her shudder, those long white skeleton bones touching her skin. She loosens her grip around his neck, looking up at him as he strokes the symbol of her very being. He stops, just short of where the two diagonal lines of her scar meet. Then his eyes find hers.

She can't figure out what he's trying to say. Or rather, not say. His expression is confused, anxious, even pained. He's asking her something. It's those questions again. Those stupid fucking questions that can't be expressed in words. It drives her insane, how abstract and complex they are, and how horrible it makes her feel that he's asking her.

It makes her furrow her brow, frowning up at him into his red eyes just as intensely. Through her own eyes, she tells him the stupid answer to his stupid questions:

_I don't know. I don't know, and I probably never will. I don't have any words that can help you.  
The only thing I can do now is this._

And she grasps his collar once more, tightly and forcefully. She pulls his mouth back onto hers, drinking in all of his warmth and frustration and desire, and repeats her answer.

_At the moment, this is all I can do for you.  
And this is all you can do for me._


End file.
